Like a Crime of Passion
by OfObscureInklings88
Summary: France is having trouble getting over a one night stand. rated for language, nothing too graphic. all characters etc. belong to their rightful owners.


You're not supposed to bother remembering them. Like a crime of passion, it's supposed to be fast and crazy and over before you know what's happened. You're not supposed to think about the girl you had a one night stand with.

France sat on his bed, back slack, staring at his hands. The curtains were drawn – the sunshine was more cruel than friendly. Francis frowned, studying the deep lines on his palms as if they were some incredibly fascinating book; the story of his life, perhaps. And in the latest chapter, a tale of what could be the biggest and best mistake he's ever made.

As a country, he was several centuries old. And when you've lived that long, you probably have a pretty colorful sex history. With just a limited number of countries, and even fewer of those being female, most had resorted to one night stands and human prostitutes long ago. France was one of those many.

Literally hundreds of girls, though he couldn't remember any of their names, but most of them probably hadn't told him their names either. Really, they were just quick fucks, something to do other than masturbating or his best friends' asses. He'd used them so many times he didn't think anything of it anymore, it was just part of the routine.

So why had she been so different?

It wasn't like he had tried anything unusual with her. Sometimes he would experiment on the girls, try out a new position or location or toy. But with her, it had just been a straight fuck, nothing fancy. He didn't even remember the fucking all that much. So why did she continue to plague his mind with images of her face, the memory of her scent, and the sound of her sweet voice?

She had been wearing a navy blue dress, straight and flat and unflattering. It looked as if someone had wrapped her in blue construction paper. She had a drink in her hand but it appeared to be untouched, and she was scowling at a group of giggling girls nearby that he assumed were her friends. Everything about her was sharp and unkind, yet this intrigued Francis. Or rather, he felt pity on her for having such poor taste in clothing, friends, and wine. That was why he had approached her, nothing more. That was what he told himself, at least.

He asked her to dance, and for a second he thought he saw a glimmer of distrust and contempt in her eyes. Like she knew exactly what kind of guy he was just by looking at him, which was probably true. Still, she put her drink down and gingerly accepted his hand. Things went downhill from there… depending on which way you're looking at it.

They stumbled into a motel room, his savory lips and expert mouth attacking her sweet, chaste one. He tore off that awful dress, crumpled it up and threw it in the corner. The entire time, he kept saying over and over again about how beautiful she was, how she shouldn't be selfish and share her beautiful smile with everyone. Although the speech faded into moans as he fucked her into the mattress, letting her know just how beautiful he thought she was. Actions speak louder than words…

And in the morning, when all was said and done, he woke up to leave as was the silent contract between all one night standers. Sneaking out without a word or even thank you; this was customary. So both of them could act like that night had never happened. But when he woke up to perform this all too familiar custom, he found that she was already gone.

Perhaps that was what was eating at him – that she had somehow managed to one up him. Whatever ridiculous reason it was, it was fucking annoying, no pun intended. That damn women was somehow messing with his head; he had been hopelessly distracted for over a week. That morning, at the meeting, he had been unusually silent, which hadn't gone unnoticed among the other countries. They had teased him mercilessly.

"What's wrong Frenchie? Cat got your tongue?" America asked, poking his temple. "Aye, leave the bloody frog alone. Things are a little nicer around here when he's quiet!" England smirked maliciously. But the grin faded when France turned to him with his big, blue, desperately forlorn eyes. He resembled a lost puppy.

Spain tugged on his long, blonde hair. "Mi amigo, que pasa?" he asked, vibrant green eyes tinted with concern. Out of the corner of his eye France swore he saw Romano quietly pouting to himself. "Ah, mon cheri, I'm alright." He waved him off, forcing his mouth to smile, though it was a weak attempt. Prussia came over and laughed his signature kesesese, pushing past America.

"Mein gott, did Frenchie get dumped or some shit?" he asked, bending down to examine his face. France faked it well, but he failed to look directly into his friend's eyes. Prussia remained unconvinced, but he quieted down. It was clearly something serious and Prussia knew better than to push him.

"Oi, that bad, aye?" he asked, dropping his voice. France looked away and nodded almost unperceptively.


End file.
